


Skin Deep

by the_moonmoth



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Teen Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-29
Updated: 2011-10-29
Packaged: 2017-10-25 01:36:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/270279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_moonmoth/pseuds/the_moonmoth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the prompt “Sansa gets a horrible case backne (or maybe just simply acne?). Worst. Thing. Ever. Good thing she has someone to remind her that there are more horribly deforming things than Backne/Acne!”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Skin Deep

**Author's Note:**

> For proxenne.

Sansa peered into the looking glass in dismay. The pimples had successfully been buried under layers of powder, but _that_ had then stood out from the rest of her face so that Sansa had been forced to powder everything as heavily, and now she looked as made up as a common whore.

A loud banging came from the door again, and her sworn shield's voice, impatient, "He won't thank you for making him wait, little bird."

Sansa's stomach lurched. Bran had put on this entire feast solely for her to meet with the Bolton heir – some distant cousin of the main branch that had now been extinguished – so that she might decide whether to accept his offer of marriage. She had heard many positive things of him, and had wanted to make a good impression, but the skin that had remained smooth and unblemished through her early teenage years had suddenly decided to betray her and she could not –simply _could_ not – go down with a face full of ugly red blotches.

"Mother have mercy," she whimpered, frozen by the horror looking back at her in the looking glass.

" _Sansa_ ," Sandor barked, and Sansa realised too late that he had opened the door to see what in the seven kingdoms was taking her so long. She tried to hide her face, but it was clear he had already seen.

"Seven hells, girl," he swore, "if your income hasn't been sufficient of late I'm sure you could just speak to your brother about raising it."

Sansa gasped at his vulgarity and fumbled for the nearest object to throw at him. It was her washcloth, and it caught him square in the chest with a squelch. It only made him laugh harder, and to Sansa's mortification, tears began to gather in her eyes.

"Tell Bran to call it off," she said, turning away from him. "I wasn't sure about it anyway, and I can't go down looking like this."

"Then take it off!" Sandor said unsympathetically.

"I can't," Sansa wailed.

"Yes, you can," Sandor said slowly, as though talking to a child, and grabbing her chin, forced her face up with one hand, and with the other brought the cloth she had thrown at him to her forehead. He was surprisingly gentle, wetting and wringing out the cloth after each stroke until her own face re-appeared in the looking glass. It was barely an improvement.

"Much better," Sandor said quietly, and Sansa looked up at him incredulously.

"I'm hideous."

Sandor's grey eyes clouded over with sudden, sharp anger. "You've a nerve saying that to _me_ , girl."

It took Sansa a moment to realise what he meant, and then she felt abashed for having forgotten his scars. They were right in front of her, after all, but she had known him so long she barely saw them anymore.

"I'm sorry, I didn't think," she said, standing and reaching out to touch his forearm. "But you have so many other virtues it hardly matters what you look like. All I have is my face."

She saw that she had surprised him, though she couldn't think how. "Little bird," he said, touching her spotty cheek with his big hand, "if all Lord Bolton sees when he looks at you is your pretty face, then he's a fool."

"What pretty face?" she said morosely, lowering her eyes.

"The one you're wearing," he said doggedly.

"That is very kind of you to say, but-"

"Sansa, there is nothing that could happen to you that would make you any less beautiful. Not plague or fire or a handful of blemishes that will be gone before the week has passed."

"Oh," Sansa said, feeling her face flame at the unexpected kindness. When she looked back up, she met his eyes for the briefest of moments before he bent to press a kiss to her mouth, swift but shocking in its sweetness. When he had straightened Sansa licked her lips nervously.

"Thank you," she said.

“Anyone who knows you would say the same,” he said gruffly, but offered her his arm nonetheless to escort her to the Great Hall.

Sansa smiled, touching her lips with tentative fingertips before leaning a little closer into Sandor's body. She knew what her answer to Lord Bolton would be.


End file.
